Playing Games With The Devil
by Jazzola
Summary: Dangerous? Possibly. Amusing? Definitely. Gene and Alex hit on a new way to keep Keats out, and have a little fun in the process. Now with added Galex.
1. Chapter 1

"Give me an 'and wi' the stool, Bolls."

"You could always use your chair."

"If I want ter go arse over tit an' end up somewhere near yer overly-painted feet with a broken neck. Bloody swivel chair."

A single light shines on the small glass-panelled office in Fenchurch East CID, dimly illuminating two silhouettes as they move around quietly in the small space, one's hand sneaking onto the other's rear end as they brush together. A sharp slap resounds through the still air.

_"Ow!"_

"Stop being such a bloody perv and focus. Where should we put it?"

"Above the door. My bloody 'and... yer've crippled me fer life!"

"I can hit a lot more than your hand from here."

One shadow ducks down as it places the stool beneath the door frame, looking up at the other pointedly; a wince flickers over the face of the taller figure, brilliant blue eyes screwing up in imagined agony.

"Assaultin' a senior officer, Bolly. That'll go down well with Jimbo."

"Well, he won't ever know, if this goes to plan."

"If it does, you owe me a scotch."

"Hey, it's your office. I'm still out there in the war zone. And I'm right next to the bloody door, so I'm the first person he turns to when he comes in. And I'm your DI, so he certainly comes to me if you're inaccessible. And-"

"Christ, Bolls, d'yer ever shut up?"

The female silhouette shoots him a withering look, picking something up off the desk.

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, especially with what we're about to do."

"Why, what does Junior want, an apology?"

"It's just a matter of respect, Gene. Respecting other people's beliefs. Like the Super was talking about. Oh yes, that's right, you didn't hear because you were too busy nursing your hangover from the night before after drinking yourself into oblivion at the expense of the taxpayer. Brilliant way to instill the public's faith in us."

The figure now precariously balanced on the stool snorts.

"Rather it went on scotch fer me than another set o' batteries fer Thatcher's vibrator. Yer got it?"

"Yes. Be careful."

"When am I not, Bolly-Kecks."

The shadow standing on the floor sighs, tiptoeing shakily in her high heels to hand something up to the man holding onto the door frame to keep upright.

"You are going to fall off that stool, fall into the desk or me and probably break both of our necks."

"Your lack of faith in me seriously disappoints, DI Drake. Got it- where's the bloody glue?"

"I think... oh, sorry. I knocked it onto the floor. Shit... it's gone everywhere."

"Draaaaaaake..."

The woman stoops to laboriously ease something out of a sticky pool on the floor, flinching at the gloop as it finally comes free.

"Sorry, Guv, it's a bit sticky."

"It's meant ter be a bit sticky... urgh!"

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

The figure on the chair groans, peeling a bottle of glue from his fingers only for it to get stuck on his other hand.

"Two scotches."

"Only if I get to shelter in here whenever he comes in."

"As much as I love 'avin' yer delectable arse in my office, Bolly, rumours are already flyin' an' I don't think addin' wood ter the bloody fire would 'elp."

"Gene, stick the bloody thing on already, would you?"

"Respect, DI Drake. Remember?"

The silhouette on the ground grinds her teeth, visibly resisting the urge to punch her superior officer somewhere literally below the belt as he stretches up, pressing the object onto the door frame and easing off the stool, surveying it with a satisfied look on his face.

"Luigi's calls, Bolly. Your round, I think."

"When will it be your bloody round?"

"When Hell freezes over, Bolls."

They both look back at the doorframe on their way out, looking over their handiwork.

"Hopefully that'll be soon. You never know."

Gene reaches out to turn the light off behind them, collecting his coat from the hook and giving Alex a mock bow, gesturing for her to walk out in front of him.

"Ladies first."

"Just so you can look at my arse."

"They invented chivalry for a reason, Bolls. 'Ow else were yer meant ter check out the opposite sex's arse in the Middle Ages? So much bloody fabric everywhere. Thank God the 80s 'ave been more considerate ter men an' invented them lovely tight jeans you 'ave."

Alex huffs, but the lack of a fight isn't lost on either of them as she strides through the doorway, leaving Gene in her wake to watch eagerly as she makes her way out.

"Do you think it'll work?"

"If it doesn't, I won't be best pleased. I don't like gettin' my boots sticky fer nothin'."

"Careful where you say that, Guv. We're in the office together late at night with nobody else around."

"Christ. Those bloody rumours'll 'ave bloody rocket fuel added if anyone catches us. Out the back."

"That means going past Keats' office."

"Even better. Nice little surprise fer 'im in the morning."

* * *

><p>"HUNT!"<p>

DCI Jim Keats growls, his eyes wide and wild as he realises he's fallen prey to one of the oldest tricks in the book. One hand is pulling at his wrist, trying to ease it back towards his body; the other is firmly stuck to the door knob.

"Can somebody help me? Our lovely DCI Gene Hunt has decided to cover the door knob with glue and so my hand is stuck..."

A pair of WPCs pass by, giggling nine to the dozen. One of Gene's DCs, that Skelton man from Manchester, looks as though he might help and then flees towards CID. Keats can see red creeping into his vision.

"Bloody Northern bastard!"

His hand finally comes free, coated with sticky, opaque glue; he sighs, heading up towards the men's loos. He can pay a visit to Hunt once he's cleaned himself up.

It takes twenty minutes, several sinkfuls of tepid water and thirty-eight paper towels to finally rid him of the worst of the glue; resolving to wipe the rest off on Hunt's disrespectful backside, he storms up towards CID, imagining hellfire surrounding him, empowering him, lightning and screams his diabolical background as he throws the door to CID open and heads towards Hunt's office...

He stops dead, staring up at the door frame, mouth wide open, body paralysed in shock.

Half hidden by the dim lighting is a small crucifix, sitting happily, innocently, right on top of the entrance to Hunt's domain.

"Ah, Jimbo. Can I help yer?"

Keats' vision drops to find DCI Gene Hunt leaning against the door frame, directly beneath the crucifix, a smug smirk threatening to split his face in two. Behind him, DI Alex Drake is perched on his desk, her lipstick failing to conceal the amusement in her face.

Keats' hands ball into fists.

_God damn it! Where am I going to intimidate, threaten and irritate him now?_

Gene's grin simply widens. Not for the first time, Keats muses the possibility of scratching 'MUFC' on the bonnet of the Quattro.

_Alright then, Hunt. Game on. Let's roll out the big guns._

* * *

><p>AN: Hope you liked it! Please remember to review! Jazzola :)


	2. Chapter 2

"Afternoon, DCI Keats. What can I do for you this afternoon?"

Chief Superintendent Wilkins looks over his glasses rim at Keats as he stands in his office, shivering slightly and cursing Wilkins's rural Yorkshire upbringing for making the man so impervious to the cold. In one hand is grasped a scrap of paper with an address on it, in the other a watch.

"It's come to my attention, sir, that none of the officers in this building are attending the annual Discipline and Complaints Summit in... er... Chelmsford. I was coming to ask if you were going to select a DCI to go- I mean, somebody should go, it's good for the public image of your station and it'll also help the department in question with efficiency, prompt investigations and management. I'm sure you'd prefer a department having those benefits to missing out on this opportunity- we're not inviting every CID in the country to attend, just those we feel could benefit."

"And which department are you suggesting, DCI Keats?"

Keats clenches his hand in his pocket, over the pocket watch flicking between 11:43 and 9:06.

"I would like to see DCI Hunt attending the summit. His management leaves a lot to be desired, his efficiency is at rock-bottom- really, sir, he needs this, him and his team."

Wilkins frowns.

"Hunt's leadership appears to be working, if a little ramshackle at times. He's got one of the best prosecution rates in London. Efficiency is being handled by DI Drake, she's got a very firm hold on the team as well. I know there was that whole business with the shooting, but that was a complete accident on Hunt's part- those guns are treacherous for getting your finger stuck, and if he was avoiding a bullet himself, I'm not surprised it went off. Besides, DI Drake is back at work now, and seems very comfortable with DCI Hunt- closer than ever, it seems to me-"

"Yes, sir, I know," Keats snaps, a little harsher than intended, hating to be reminded of his failure to bring Gene Hunt down for that 'business' and the new intimacy between Gene and Alex. Wilkins raises his eyebrows.

"Sorry, sir, but I just very much feel that Hunt and Drake would benefit from the summit. It would help them both a great deal."

Wilkins nods.

"Well, I'll put the idea to them. I'll need an address, time and date for this summit. I haven't heard anything about it..."

Keats gulps.

"No, no, it's only just started. We're keeping it quiet, you know, to avoid gatecrashers, only inviting those who we feel are very much in need of it. Having surveyed Fenchurch East CID for a couple of months now, I feel there's much room for improvement."

"Well, it's your judgement, and I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I'll pass a message down to CID."

"Tomorrow, sir, nine twenty. I have the address here."

He hands the scrap of paper over; Wilkins glances at it, tapping the memo out on a typewriter next to his computer and putting it in an envelope, stamping 'DCI GENE HUNT AND DI ALEX DRAKE' on the front, placing it in his out tray.

"Thank you, DCI Keats. Oh, and the heating in your room- is it satisfactory?"

Keats frowns.

"I could do with it being a little warmer, sir."

"Warmer? It's like a sauna in there! You can feel the heat walking along outside! You must have incredibly poor circulation- have you seen a doctor?"

Keats's mouth twists into a sly smile.

"I manage, sir."

He heads out, smiling darkly to himself, a giggle threatening his throat as he attempts to hold onto his professional persona.

Keats shivers, rueing how cold mortals need to have the place; holding the watch up, he makes a dash for his office, rolling his eyes as it switches from 11:43 to 9:06 and back again.

"Focus, it's Hunt you're here to take down."

The watch gives a little hiss, firmly stopping at 11:43 once again. Keats gives a smirk of approval, walking forwards, stowing the watch back into his pocket.

"AIEEEE!"

His scream, several octaves higher than it should have been, reverberates around the corridor just as his foot goes straight through a panel on the floor, leaving him doing an involuntary splits on the icy concrete.

"Ah ow ee ah help!"

He only just glimpses the back of a blond head vanishing behind him, sniggering with someone else he presumes to be DI Drake. His gut twists- he will _not _be made fun of by a pair of dead bloody coppers!

"You wait until tomorrow, Hunt- you wait!"

* * *

><p>"I feel sick."<p>

"We've only been driving for five bloody minutes!"

"Gene, you drive like a maniac. I felt sick after a few seconds. It's not just bloody car sickness, it's fear for my life!"

Alex strongly suspects he's venting his feelings on the road; it had taken the Super two hours of nagging, cajoling and eventually bribery to get Gene to attend the summit, and even then Gene had only agreed to shut him up (and in order to enjoy the incredibly expensive scotch promised). But whatever his reason for doing a passable impression of a rabid and constipated ralley driver, it's making her feel ill and her only thought is of getting him to slow down.

"Don't drive like a maniac."

"You bloody well do."

Gene pouts, changing gear with a thrust worthy of a professional darts player; the car jerks, and Alex covers her mouth, begging for them to arrive in Chelmsford. It's only a thirty minute drive, but the way Gene goes about it it's more like being on a rollercoaster twice over, only worse.

"Gene, for God's sake, slow down!"

At the sight of her paper white skin, Gene silently acquiests, slowing a little and pulling into a lay-by, reaching across her to open the door as Alex realises she's about to be sick.

Unable to stop herself, Alex retches, splutters, and coughs out vomit- all over Gene's arm, the dashboard, and the seat of the Quattro.

For a moment, neither speaks, Gene's mouth open with shock, Alex spitting out a little left-over bile and opening her eyes, realising what she's done.

Gene is speechless for almost the first time in his forty-odd years, his eyebrows rising as the tepid sick begins soaking onto his skin.

"Oh God- Gene- sorry!"

"That," Gene says heavily after a pause, opening his own door and stripping his jacket off, throwing it onto the grass, "was bloody disgusting. Thanks very much, Drake."

"If your driving had been better, it wouldn't have happened," Alex mutters, on the defensive immediately as she recovers, squeezing out of the sick-stained seat and standing up on the verge, her stomach doing somersaults but mercifully managing to conserve what is left of her breakfast. Gene groans, examining his suit, reaching in to open the dashboard and get out some water and a barley sugar, pressing both into Alex's hands as he pulls a spare shirt out from under the driver's seat.

"There, 'ave those. I'll send yer the number o' my dry cleaner's."

"Your driving caused it."

"'S your bloody sick."

Alex huffs.

"Just because you can't pay for your own dry-cleaning. All go on booze and cigarettes, did it?"

Gene's gaze grows hard as he stares her down, growling deep in his throat as she glares right back, her eyes flinty to match his.

"Not that it's any o' your business, DI Drake, but much of my bloody salary goes on the dementia care 'ome in Lancashire that my mother is currently enjoyin'. Shall we move on?"

Alex opens, then shuts her mouth, missing the miniscule red flush in Gene's cheeks as he turns away, diligently avoiding her gaze, clambering back into the Quattro and leaving her on the verge, sponging up the worst of the sick with an empty fish and chip paper and an old towel. She gets in silently, half chastised, half honoured that Gene has entrusted her with this detail about his private life.

As they set off, she silently slips her hand on top of Gene's as he changes gear, and keeps it there.

* * *

><p>"Is this the address Keats gave?" Alex asks as the Quattro draws into a car park, purring gently as the engine cuts out. Gene gives her a supercilious look.<p>

"Not unless D&C 'ave thought o' the luxury of entertainin' us in a multi-storey bloody car park. Out yer get, an' try not ter be sick goin' there, I only 'ave the one shirt."

Alex bites back a retort, mindful that if she gets on his wrong side it'll be a very difficult day for both her and anyone unfortunate enough to encounter him, and slides out, unintentionally giving him a first-class view of her arse. He grins to himself, locking the car and striding towards the building on the note, cursing Wilkins's negotiation training. _Got me 'ook, line an' bloody sinker. That whisky better be bloody good._

"Just up 'ere, Bolls."

He turns a corner, silently daring a teenage boy to cut them up with his bike, striding forwards as the boy hastily attempts a sharp turn to escape from the Gene Genie's eyes and cycles straight into the side of a building.

"Kids," Gene says carelessly, giving a little tut, leaving a passer-by to pick the boy up and brush him down as they head towards the building hosting the summit. Alex sighs, beginning to complain and petering out as she realises he's not listening. _Bloody infuriating man. But... if I just slow down a little... not bad from behind, I'll give him that._

Gene turns into another side street, walks down to an address, and stops, staring up at it. Alex frowns.

"Landmark?"

"That's the address."

Alex joins him in looking up at the ruined, decrepit house, looking down at the paper and back at the street name and peeling front door of the building.

"Bloody Keats... he's sent us on a wild goose chase! There's no summit!"

Gene growls, crumpling the paper up violently in one red fist, a vein pulsing just below his hairline, teeth clenched so hard it hurts. Alex is trying and failing to stop the fury building, punching the fence, imagining it is Keats's smug face.

"Come on, back ter the Quattro. We can think of things ter do ter bloody Keats on the way- what d'yer think of takin' all the labels off 'is files?"

He storms off, his coat swishing behind him, an avenger in an 80s suit; Alex stomps after him, grinding her jaws, her high heels banging like a machine gun in the dilapidated old street, chest jiggling wildly. Gene can't help but have a look, redirecting some of the blood pumping furiously round his body to a slightly embarrassing part of his anatomy; he hopes Alex won't twig why he's pulled his coat round him and done up one of the buttons.

"HANDS IN THE AIR! EVERYONE GET AGAINST THE WALL!"

At the sound of the shout, Gene and Alex exchange a look and run towards the high street, catching a glimpse of a figure wearing a balaclava and clutching a machine gun, gesticulating wildly in one of the shops; Gene eases into position at the back door, drawing his gun from its holster and silencing Alex's question with a glare, motioning for her to get the door open.

"Three... two... one!" he hisses, the pair of them bursting in as the balaclava screams and turns to fire a shot at Gene, missing by a huge margin as Gene swings the barrel of his gun into the man's temple, felling him like a limp rush.

"Lovely little trainin' exercise," he says to the assembled crowd, putting the gun back in his holster and brushing his hands off, giving the man lying on the floor a quick kick just to make sure he's out. "DCI Gene Hunt, Metropolitan Police. Someone want ter get 'im a lift ter the local nick? 'E's otherwise engaged."

Someone in the crowd starts a round of applause, the rest joining in as Gene cuffs the man lying on the floor and Alex hoists him up onto a chair, beaming round at the people, making a quick check to see if everyone is alright. A noise from the back draws the crowd's attention, a few people stepping out of the way as a newspaper reporter bustles through, snapping a picture of Gene and Alex with the would-be robber, grinning.

"This'll make a great headline! Could I have a few words with you, DCI Hunt?"

Gene rolls his eyes, stepping back from the failed blagger and looking straight at the camera, narrowing his eyes.

"Yeah, four. Just doin' my job."

The crowd returns to cheering, clapping and celebrating as a car turns up to book the man and haul him off to the local nick. Gene and Alex make their getaway as soon as they can, Alex unable to keep the smile off her face at the gratitude of the people in the shop, Gene trying to keep the Manc Lion mask in place and gladly accepting a flask of whisky from one of the men in the shop.

Keats, watching from the entrance of the wrecked street, lets his face convulse with hatred.

"Bastard! Bloody do-gooder bastard!"

He yanks a Thermos flask of coffee from his briefcase, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip, yelping and spitting as he gets a mouthful of foam. He empties the flask out on the street, finding a pile of foam, a few globules of Fairy Liquid still left intact and a Post-It note stuck to the bottom of the flask.

"Enjoy, Jimbo. DCI Hunt and DI Drake."

Keats could cry with loathing.

"Oh, I will get you. I will get you... and it will be so satisfying!"

* * *

><p>AN: This was going to be a one-shot, looks as though it's going to turn into a full-blown story! Please remember to review, that's what keeps me going. I can write more! Thanks for reading, and REVIEW! Jazzola :)


	3. Chapter 3

_Next plan of action. Hmm..._

Keats frowns, tapping the blank notebook in front of him as he lounges back in his chair, thinking hard. Nothing too radical, nothing he can be blamed for. Something Alex and Gene will _know_ he did, but can't _prove_ he did.

_And nothing I have to be in his office for. God damn the man... oh, no, I'm in no position to be asking that, being God-damned myself._

The pen abruptly breaks, spilling ink all over the notebook; Keats swears fluently, looking around for a cloth to mop it up, frowning as the sharp stink of the fluid reaches his nostrils. _That doesn't smell like ink... that's... petrol!_

The pen, abandoned next to the notebook, abruptly splits open to reveal a cloth; he presumes Hunt stuffed it in there to keep the petrol canister in place, snatching it out and beginning to daub at the petrol.

The notebook abruptly bursts into flames.

Keats yells, snatching his coat off the coat hanger to put the flaming book out; it's only when the soft crackling has ceased completely that he draws it away, looking down at the cloth and seeing a smoking match, concealed in the fabric, next to a piece of paper off the side of a matchbox. _Very clever, Hunt. I use it to clean it up, the match lights, and off it goes... I am going to get you back for this, you puny little Northern bastard!_

And then an idea dawns on him, incredibly cruel even for him, and he laughs, throwing the smouldering notebook in the bin and, picking up the coat hanger, drawing the trenchcoat over his shoulders, realising too late that it is still just about lit.

"AAAHHHEEEAAAHHH!"

Gene and Alex, walking down the corridor at the time by a happy coincidence with Ray, Chris and Shaz in tow, fall about laughing as Keats leaps out of his office with the back of his suit on fire, screeching and yelping as he drops and rolls, extinguishing the flames on the concrete floor, glaring up at the five as they chortle together, a gleam in Gene's eyes. He suspects this one was his idea.

"Very funny," he hisses. Alex sniffs the air, her face rearranged into mock concern.

"I can smell smoke, Gene. I think it's coming from DCI Keats's office... we should check in there, make sure it's alright."

Gene shakes his head, staring down at Keats with triumph in his eyes.

"Ray, go in an' check DCI Keats's office over."

"Yes, Guv," Ray says, his eyes glittering as he heads in, smirking at Keats on his way. The demon picks himself up with as much dignity as possible, holding his head as high as it will go- not as tall as Gene, unfortunately. Or even Alex. _Bother. _Even WPC Granger isn't far off. Gene laughs.

"'Ow's yer coat? Looked a bit blackened ter me... might be time ter pop down to the 'igh street. See if they do anythin' resemblin' dead elephant skin."

"You're one to talk. Exhibit A: DCI Hunt's feet."

Keats sneers at the boots, which twitch as Gene also looks down at them, straightening back up with a grin.

"Exhibit A: my feet. Even they are more stylish than you'll ever 'ope ter be."

Keats opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by Ray coming back out, an unpleasant smirk on his face as he looks round at Gene, nodding.

"Nothin' o' concern there, except the CD collection."

Gene smiles slyly; the coppers clustered around him snigger.

"Very well then. Off we go. Nice seein' yer, Jimbo."

He walks past, making sure to hit Keats with his shoulder as he heads to the entrance. The demon grinds his teeth, slipping his coat off to examine it and groaning at the scorch marks running through the back. His nice new suit will be ruined too. Looks like Moss Bros will be doing good business today.

He retreats to his office to start planning, sinking into his nicely-adjusted chair and finding a fresh notebook and pen, opening it and starting to write, a devilish smile creeping over his face as the plan forms and flourishes in his head.

He doesn't realise that DS Carling has put a pad of white ink under his bottom, which is in the shape of a penis, and that the ink has now permanently imprinted a (very small) manhood on his trousers.

On his way to the High Street, he wonders why people are sniggering.

* * *

><p>Eight o'clock at night, and Keats judges that it's the perfect time. Gene and Alex are staying late, looking over case files by order of the Super; they'll be there until at least nine.<p>

The journalist at the News of the World had been very helpful, pulling several strings to find Keats the picture he wanted. Of course, the veiled threats helped; some were even quite inventive, Keats thinks as he strolls towards CID, smiling at his own imagination. The piece of newspaper tucked in his pocket has raised his spirits sky-high... as low as it'll make Hunt's sink.

He doesn't pass anyone in the corridors, and he is thankful for it, beaming to himself as he heads silently towards the office. He can hear the low rumble of Hunt's voice already, Drake answering in a higher tone, a tinge of amusement in her voice.

One long-fingered hand presses something to the doorframe and retracts.

The movement catches Gene's eye; he stands up, his stance aggressive, jaw jutting as he walks towards the door, stopping dead (_how appropriate, _Keats thinks) as he sees the picture, horror thick on his features. Alex walks up with him, her jaw dropping, grabbing Gene's arm and making to steer him away from the picture, but Gene is frozen to the spot with shock, his eyes gradually narrowing with loathing as he moves forwards, reaching out towards the picture.

"Pretty, isn't it, Hunt?"

Keats steps out, shining his torch on the picture, illuminating it to its hateful brightest. The picture shows DI Sam Tyler, but not as a brilliant police officer, one of the brightest sparks in the GMP; this picture has his face superimposed over a broken, destroyed body, sodden and gory, maimed beyond recognition.

Gene steps back, his eyes finding Keats; the murderous look in his eyes would intimidate anyone but one of Satan's servants. Keats simply smiles, turning the torch to show the picture up even better.

"Yes, I very much like it. Don't know about you, but I think it's brilliant. Might ask my friend at the News of the World to print it-"

He never finishes his sentence. Gene lunges forwards, his fist swinging towards Keats's smug face: by instinct, Keats jabs out with his sharpened nails, his middle and index fingers slicing into Gene's stomach through his shirt, sliding through flesh as Gene cries out, recoiling, his fingers turning red as blood dribbles from his skin. Alex shrieks, moving to support him into a chair, but Gene shakes his head, still bent from the blow.

"You'll pay fer this," he hisses, blood dripping onto the checkerboard floor. "You will pay!"

He reaches up to grab the picture from the door, ripping it to shreds with his bloodied fingers, throwing the pieces in Chris's bin as he straightens as far as the wounds will let him, shoving Keats roughly to one side as he all but runs out of CID, dropping against the wall in the foyer as the blood leaks from his face and stomach. Alex's face is full of horror, yelling to Viv for an ambulance as Keats steals out.

Instead of triumph, he now feels worry, disappointment- that prank went badly wrong, although it backfired more on Hunt- and a slight apprehension to what will happen next.

Even if Hunt doesn't name him- and he doubts he will- this is not childish pranks anymore, simple point-scoring against each other, almost petty. He looks down at his nails, seeing blood pooled on the nails, staining the pale skin. Gene's blood.

This is now all-out war.

* * *

><p>AN: It had to happen sooner or later! Hope you enjoyed, and please drop a review- your response to this story so far has been awesome, thank you so much. Jazzola :)


	4. Chapter 4

"Any pain?" Alex asks gently, pressing down on Gene's bandaged stomach. He hisses.

"Careful!"

"Sorry."

Gene struggles upright in the uncomfortable hospital trolley, stripped down to his bloodstained vest and trousers, shivering slightly in the cool A&E department; Alex leans over, making to help him, retracting her arms hurriedly as Gene scowls at her.

"Leave me alone, DI Drake."

"If you so insist," Alex snaps back, jerking up from her chair and storming out in a flurry of indignant denim and batwing top. Gene rolls his eyes at her retreating arse, knowing that she's fully aware he's staring at it.

Leaning back onto the pillows heaped behind him, Gene sighs heavily, one hand rubbing the bandages covering his tummy absent-mindedly, safe in the knowledge that Alex will go and get some tea and come straight back. Fighting is a huge part of their relationship, always has been; they fight and make up so easily it barely affects them at all anymore.

_But Keats wants ter change that._

Gene groans quietly, letting his head fall back. The blood loss has left him feeling woozy; he quietly wonders whether Alex would let him sleep or firmly tell him to wake up, closing his eyes and deciding he doesn't care. He's tired and he'll sleep.

_Fell over onter a whiteboard leg._

His excuse echoes in his head, twinned with Keats' mocking laughter, as Gene slips into sleep.

* * *

><p>The picture glares at him every time he closes his eyes.<p>

Work today has been slow. Alex has been in the Super's office most of today in a meeting about team efficiency he was let off due to his injuries, so he has nothing nice to stare at and nobody to piss about in the kitchenette with. The team has been grilling him about how he got the cuts on his stomach; using their highly-tuned powers of deduction, they have noted that the whiteboard has no blood on it, but he sticks by his excuse, saying the cleaners must have dealt with it. Even dispatching Ray to Keats' office to set up a little prank for him hasn't alleviated much of the boredom. He's spent most of the day lounging in his chair, occasionally dozing, waiting for the clock hands to chug round to five o'clock so he can go to Luigi's and get too drunk to remember his DI's face above the broken, mangled body.

_This is what Keats bloody wanted. Ter drive me mad. 'E's bloody succeeded._

Gene sighs, throwing a dart half-heartedly at the dartboard and managing half a smile as it hits the bullseye, freshly decorated with the worst picture of Keats he could find; Ray had managed, at the Christmas party last year, to snap a shot that made it look like the minion was fingering himself. Naturally, the nuts had taken pride of place as the bullseye.

As if on cue, the photographer himself suddenly pokes his head round the door, something shiny clutched in one hand as Gene looks round, raising his eyebrows.

"Guv? Blag at a jeweller's, St. Botolph Street."

Finally, something to distract him. Gene all but leaps from his chair, only to fall back with a gasp of pain as his stomach protests at the sudden movement, a burning sensation attacking his gut. Ray makes to help him, but the DCI's glare is more than enough to put him off.

"You touch me, DI Carling, an' yer knackers will soon be makin' their way through a rabid dog's digestive system, do I make myself clear? Where're my bloody Quattro keys?"

Ray holds up the keys, his eyebrows rising as Gene lunges for them and misses by a country mile, hissing with agony.

"You should stay 'ere, Guv. Chris an' I'll 'andle this one."

"DI Carling. As yer superior officer, I order that you 'and over my car keys an' _get out of my bloody way!_"

"DI Drake said-"

"DI Drake says a lot of thin's, an' ninety percent of it is bloody bullshit. Give."

Ray silently hands the keys over.

"Ta very muchly."

All he and Chris can do is hurry after their DCI as he straightens, ignoring the pain blazing in his stomach, and storms out of CID.

* * *

><p>Funnily enough, things aren't going well for Keats either.<p>

The Super, using the incredible detecting skills that have made him a Super (besides being a fan of cricket and a family tree traceable to the 15th century), had worked out that the 'course' Keats sent Gene and Alex on was a fake, and had hauled Keats over the coals for it, telling him never to pull a stunt like that again or he'd be out of a job and in jail for wasting police time. Specifically his. Then he'd come back to his office to find that, while he was out, someone- he suspects DI Carling, with a certain DCI as the mastermind- had readjusted his chair so that when he sat on it it catapulted him forwards onto his desk, thoughtfully sabotaged with a custard pie covered in tissue paper to disguise it.

The minion sighs, scratching his head and fishing a little custard from behind his ear, cursing roundly at whoever had dreamt up that little plan. A car roars somewhere in the distance and he smirks, recognising the distinctive tones of the Quattro. _Hunt off to that jeweller's I organised? Have to keep him on his toes while he's injured, help his recovery._

Yes, it is a low blow, organising it himself, he reflects with a small smile, but on the other hand, his boss would heartily approve of everything he's doing, and that's what matters. That, and the smug pride he gets from having one over on Gene Hunt.

He picks up a dart and chucks it towards his dartboard, the bullseye nicely decorated with a mug-shot of Gene. He misses completely, creating another small hole in the wall and sighing. He's never actually managed to hit the picture. In fact, he wonders whether he's actually ever managed to hit the dartboard. He wasn't put in his job for his aim. _Damn Hunt and his accuracy. Unless it's to do with DI Drake, of course. _He sniggers to himself.

His eye catches the slip of paper tucked beneath the files on his desk, bearing the details of the blag. Hopefully that useless tosser Dyke will remember what he's meant to do. If not, Keats has a lovely little spot at the centre of a fire in Hell for him... reserved.

He grins to himself, taking a swig of coffee from his favourite mug.

A couple of WPCs walking along outside turn to stare at the door of the office as the sound of spluttering and choking comes from inside, mingling nicely with yelled curses and obscenities, mostly directed at DCI Hunt.

_Bloody Fairy Liquid again! Devil damn you, Hunt... no, wait, he already has._

* * *

><p>Gene wonders absent-mindedly whether any of the blaggers will have dark hair so he can pretend they're Keats as the Quattro skids round a corner towards the jeweller's, cutting up several people at a roundabout and narrowly missing a group of elderly women on a zebra crossing. One of the old biddies gives him a V-sign; he raises his eyebrows, squealing round a corner and stamping on the brakes.<p>

"Guv, they're armed," Ray reminds him from the back seat, him and Chris scrambling to get out as Gene opens his door and almost moans with the sudden pain from his midriff. _Think I've snapped the stitches. Might actually 'ave snapped more than one. Just please, please don't bleed all over my suit._

"Guv? You OK? Yer as white as a ginger bird's arse."

"Thank you fer that wisdom, Chris. I recommend findin' a better line, I seem ter remember yer usin' that one in nineteen-bloody-seventy-three," Gene mutters, manfully pushing himself out of the car and biting his cheek to stop himself making any noise. "Right. Where'll they come out from?"

"Back, Guv, there's people everywhere on the street itself," Ray says, taking the safety catch off on his gun and belatedly realising that Gene is bent double behind him, using the Quattro for support. "Guv, yer shouldn' be 'ere, yer no use ter us actin' like a bloody casualty."

Gene simply fires into the air. Both Chris and Ray jump back like startled children.

"See? I can fire a gun wi' the best of 'em. Now get yer sorry arses ter that door an' flank me!"

* * *

><p>"Where's DCI Hunt gone?"<p>

"Out, there was a blag at a jeweller's. Didn' look so good, ma'am, don't reckon 'e should've gone," Shaz says before anyone else can get anything in, her eyebrows almost knitted together in concern. Alex sighs.

"I should have expected no less from DCI Hunt. The Super put him on bloody desk work! Does he never listen?"

The chorus of "no" from everyone else in CID is to be expected. Alex rolls her eyes.

"I didn't think so. Where did they go? I should-"

The radio abruptly cuts everyone off, crackling into life on Shaz's desk, its tinny, distinctly Ray-like tones echoing around the suddenly silent office.

"Big Bear ter CID. Big Bear ter CID. We 'ave a man down. The Guv, 'e's down."

Alex simply grabs the keys to one of the pool cars and runs out of CID.

* * *

><p>"Told yer yer shouldn' 'ave tried ter punch that last one, Guv, Ray 'ad an 'old on 'im anyway," Chris says quietly, standing awkwardly next to the Quattro as Ray retrieves his radio and Gene holds a wad of towels to his bleeding stomach, shirt half-open and chest exposed in the grim, strained London light. A police van is sitting nearby, loading the blaggers in; most are sporting some kind of injury from DCI Hunt, some moaning about police brutality as the doors close.<p>

"When I need your opinion, DC Skelton, I will ask fer it," Gene mutters darkly, lifting the towel a tiny amount to see snapped stitches and a lot of blood staining his pale skin. _Bolly's goin' ter kill me. Bloody Keats... I will get 'im back fer this. I will._

One of the blaggers yells from the back of the van, one last-ditch attempt to get himself out of the very deep hole he's dug himself; the assembled police officers swerve up to stare at him, his voice rising above the hurried "no, don't, shut up, you twat!"s of the other prisoners.

"Was only doing what Mr Keats told us to!"

Gene stands up slowly, dropping the towel on the floor of the Quattro as he advances towards the van, ignoring one or two of the blaggers shrinking back from him.

"'Oo did you just say asked yer ter do this?" he said quietly, ominously. The blagger gulped.

"You'll keep me safe?"

"Depends on how much you tell us. Tell me exactly 'oo asked yer ter do this blag, at this particular time, on this particular day."

"Mr Keats! James Keats. Friday 13th, 'e said."

Only then does Gene realise that the day is Friday 13th.

_Devil's Day._

_Keats._

_Bingo._

"GENE!"

_Bolly. Bugger._

* * *

><p>AN: I am so sorry about the delay, I had the worst writer's block ever for this! Hope you enjoyed it- please remember to review. Thanks for reading- REVIEW! Jazzola


	5. Chapter 5

"You, Gene Hunt, are bloody lucky you didn't snap every single one of those stitches. What on Earth were you thinking?"

"Oh, stop naggin', woman. I'm still 'ere, you're still 'ere an' accordin' ter Shaz Keats still got 'is Fairy Liquid coffee, so stop be'avin' like my ex-wife an' get me a scotch, I'm parched."

"Get it yourself."

"You told me not ter get off the bloody sofa!"

"Looks like you're going to have to wait, then," Alex retorts promptly, pushing her DCI back into the cushions of her sofa as he props himself up on his elbow to carry on arguing with her. "Gene, lie down, for God's sake. I don't want you snapping the new stitches as well. Christ knows how you've got enough blood left in your body to carry on bloody arguing with me."

Gene rolls his eyes, shifting to make his aching stomach more comfortable. Alex had stitched him up herself, with more force behind the needle than he suspected was strictly necessary; he would rather have let her see that doodle Chris and Ray pinned up in the kitchenette in 1981 than let her treat his wounds again.

"Are you going to tell the Super it was Keats?" Alex asks softly, budging him up to sit down behind him and pulling him back onto her lap, stroking his hair. Gene frowns.

"Why? Might not believe us. Even if we both said it... Bolls, Keats'll 'ave told 'im about the Fairy Liquid teas an' the various other pranks we've played on 'im by now. Yes, everyone knows I was injured in CID, but nobody else was there an' we gave the excuse of me fallin' onter the whiteboard. Been in this long enough, Bolls, 's not the first time a copper's 'ad a pop at me an' the 'igher ups 'aven't believed me."

Alex cocks her head to one side.

"Well? Story time with the Gene Genie. What happened?"

"Derek bloody Litton 'appened. We'd 'ad an office fight a couple o' days before'and, 'e thought 'e'd get me back by slashin' the Cortina's tyres, but I caught 'im in the act, so 'e slashed me instead."

"Where?"

Gene lifts his sleeve to point out a scar on his arm.

"Wasn' deep, just bloody painful. But the superiors wouldn' believe me. Said I was makin' it up."

"Why didn't they believe you?"

"What's the point o' this, Bolls?"

"Well, if I know what happened before, we can devise a plan to get round these obstacles and prove it was Keats. So. Why didn't they believe you?"

"Litton's reputation, our reputation workin' together. They searched Litton's 'ouse an' office an' didn't find the knife. Prob'ly threw it in the river. Litton was a wanker, but a smart wanker."

He sniffs.

"That an' Sam Tyler 'ad died the week before. They thought I was lookin' fer pity, the DCI without 'is DI. Litton cashed in on that, told 'em 'e'd found me in the toilets doin' somethin' less than manly. Not even goin' ter bloody repeat it. Long shot of it was, Litton got a few gags fer 'is team an' I got bloody humiliated. Couldn' walk down a corridor without someone makin' cryin' noises at me. Got into a few more office brawls that week. An' every-bloody-where else brawls."

Alex smiles.

"Well, Keats doesn't have an unblemished reputation. That 'conference' was exposed, he got talked to over that. The higher-ups know he's got it in for you, that's common knowledge."

"An' they know that the same is true vice versa. As much as I 'ate ter say it, Bolls, we're goin' ter 'ave ter let this go an' just think of somethin' else. Like framin' Keats fer this robbery."

Alex's face becomes thoughtful.

"We're going to need some convincing evidence, along with Peterson's word. That on its own won't get Keats sent down, it won't even reach his record. Just be a desperate blagger throwing crazy accusations around."

Gene's face sets in a determined pout; Alex is visited by the desire to pick him up and kiss it off his face.

"So what d'yer suggest?"

"Letters. Fingerprints. Maybe someone else saw him? Did his car brush anything on the way there? Who else knows he was meeting those blaggers there? We're going to have to dig deep into Jim Keats, find out everything we can."

Gene nods.

"We're goin' ter find the skeletons in 'is closet, and keep just enough under our sleeves ter 'ave 'im by the short an' curlies."

Alex rolls her eyes.

"Metaphors. All over the shot."

He tips her a wink, resting his head on her stomach as she begins running over plans in her head, her fingers drumming absently on Gene's arm. It's only when she hears a light snore and feels Gene cuddling her arm that she realises he's fallen asleep on her.

_Ah well. I can think of worse places to be._

Alex wriggles slightly to get comfortable, picking up her blanket from the floor and draping it over the pair of them as she settles back, her head lying on the armrest.

Within a couple of minutes they are both fast asleep.

* * *

><p>Keats isn't stupid.<p>

He knows that bastard Dyke has squealed. His master has tipped him off that Hunt's feeling good tonight. Keats suspects that has something to do with the fact that Drake is looking after him, but he's not naïve enough to think that it's all to do with that. Hunt's planning something, him and Drake.

So he has a plan.

What does Gene value, above many other things? Alex, but she's well nigh untouchable at the moment, and he wants to preserve her for later, play with her a bit, make her squirm before he brings her down. Gene's team are too well-protected, and he can't get within ten feet of most of them anyway, thanks to that bloody crucifix. Plus two of them are regulars at the local church.

No. He's going for Gene's baby. His pride and joy. The object he very nearly considers of more importance to him than his own ball-sack.

The Quattro.

And he's not skulking around like some common criminal puncturing the tyres, either. It has to write the thing off, devastate Gene. Preferably cause some damage to him and Alex as well, and maybe some back-seat passengers too? Chris and Ray... a broken ankle could see them off the streets for a good couple of months. Keats rubs his hands together in glee, studying the blueprint of the station he's gleaned from the records room with fresh determination.

_So he would be driving it out of there... under the bridge. If he got a call to the west, that's the way he'd go, under there... giving me the perfect opportunity. All I have to do is organise a quick call to the west._

_Something that'll hurt him even more, when he gets back from the garage after being told that the Quattro is smashed to smithereens._

His grin widens.

_Lions don't like their cubs being killed. Especially little pretty ones. Five or six? Very, very cute. I'm sure I can find one with more than a passing resemblance to Alex Drake... one very close to our own Gene Genie..._

No. He has to reign that in. Alex Price has to live. Killing her would cause such a paradox, he'd never work his way out of the paperwork. Just a child will do. A sweet one. A cute one. The kind adults always simper over. Pigtails. Bloodstained pigtails outside the school gates. _Yes._

He circles the bridge in red pen- after opening the barrel to check it- and sniggers to himself, picking the phone up. Time to check who the active murderers in the area are. Specifically ones who specialise in children.

_Tomorrow, Gene. Tomorrow._

* * *

><p>Above Luigi's, Gene subconsciously nuzzles into Alex's stomach, long legs draped over the end of the sofa, a tiny smile quirking over his face before he settles to sleep again.<p>

* * *

><p>In her small London house, five-year-old Katie Howard clutches the teddy bear her grandma made for her to her chest, blowing a goodnight kiss to her daddy as she settles to sleep, the memory of her parents' bedtime cuddle still warm around her little body.<p>

* * *

><p>In Fenchurch East, Keats lies down carefully on the sofa at the back of his office, draping the usual mass of blankets over himself and wishing he had a nice hellfire to warm him up. Nothing like the destruction of a soul to keep your hands from going blue.<p>

The blueprint is sat in his locked desk drawer, next to his correspondences with Dyke and his little notebook. He knows he should get rid of all three, but it gives him a little thrill to have such incriminating evidence right under Hunt's nose, where he can never get at it. He grits his teeth as the crucifix above his door replays in his memory. If only there was something that kept Hunt and his cronies out of his office... unfortunately, Hunt's 'search warrant' and skeleton key ensure that the majority of the station is his oyster.

He closes his eyes, determinedly shutting that train of thought down. He has to remain focused, and for that he needs sleep.

A grin grows on his face as he idly envisages tomorrow's killing, and his revenge on Hunt. His way of keeping the DCI silent. _Oh, Hunt will be silenced. And I will bathe in glory when it happens._

He turns over to get comfortable, chuckling to himself.

A shelf drops away from the wall, dousing him in cold water.

"AHHHHHHHHH! HUNT, I WILL BLOODY GET YOU!"

* * *

><p>He has to do this quietly. If he's found, the game is up. A little girl's life, the life of an innocent, depends on him keeping his cover. Gene cannot suspect or know anything.<p>

His footsteps echo around the empty street as he slides towards the Quattro, slotting the spare key into the lock. The door feels smooth under his fingers as he opens it; leaning in, he gets a faceful of sleek seating and perfectly modelled dashboard, a cool leather steering wheel, the energetic dignity of a rally car woven into each inch of the vehicle. He basks in it for a second, choosing to ignore the smells of whisky and cigarette smoke that hang around the interior. It is Gene's car, after all.

_I wonder if it's time to trade in my Rover?_

He chuckles to himself, taking the note out of his pocket, making sure the Sellotape is strong enough to hold out until morning. He needs to be careful not to set off the horn while he's taping the note to the wheel. That would be suicide... for himself and for the child.

The Audi seems to pick up on his intentions, and sits, quiet as a baby, while he fixes it in place.

_Good car. Well done. You behave well for Gene tomorrow, eh? Make sure he sees the note._

It may just be his imagination, but he thinks the car rocks slightly, as though it were nodding its assent. He smiles wanly, giving the steering wheel one quick stroke.

_I'm getting fanciful in my old age. Better be getting back._

He locks the Quattro up, nodding sagely at it before turning to make his way home.

The light from Luigi's catches for a second on his epaulette.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry about the long wait for this update- hope you like it! Please, please remember to review. Even if it's just for Amberdextrous' sake. She's terrified of fireworks and everyone seems to be having a collective senior moment and thinking it's the 5th already. Jazzola *cuddling her dog*


	6. Chapter 6

Gene is slow to awaken the next morning, burying his head in the warm sofa cushions his DI has left behind as she bustles around in the kitchen, making just enough noise to make sure any further sleep is impossible. His stomach aches dully, but the stitches seem to be working, however loathe he is to admit that Alex's first aid isn't that bad; his back, on the other hand, is keen to tell him exactly how much it didn't appreciate the night on the sofa. He's almost tempted to ask Alex for some painkillers, but after firmly telling himself that the Gene Genie isn't a pansy and doesn't need poncy painkillers opts instead to take a healthy swig from his hip-flask to dull the ache.

"So you are awake. Gene, your stomach's completely unlined, you start drinking now and you'll be incapable by about eight. And that'd be a record even for you."

A cup of tea appears at the end of his nose, a bacon sandwich behind it on the coffee table; he eases himself up, watching Alex's arse as she heads back into the kitchen to get her own breakfast. The baggy pyjamas can't quite disguise her nicely-rounded buttocks enough to put him off. He suspects idly that Alex knows this, rubbing his aching back as he picks up the sandwich.

"Eat up. I've gone to the trouble of making it for you, haven't I? I've got some painkillers if you want them too."

Bugger. She can see through him like a piece of glass.

"Nah," he mumbles, stuffing bacon sandwich into his mouth to disguise his pink-tinged cheeks. From the tiny smirk on Alex's face as she spoons muesli into her mouth, he suspects he hasn't succeeded.

"I can tell the Super you're taking today off if you want, Gene."

"Like 'ell yer will. A stomach ache isn't goin' ter stop me goin' in."

"Your stomach's had two rounds of stitches, not to mention you snapped the last… Gene?"

Alex looks up from her muesli, her mouth falling open in annoyance as she finds she's talking to an empty lounge.

"Oh, for goodness' sake. Why do I even bother?"

* * *

><p>"Ready for school, Katie?"<p>

"Can I take my drawing, Mummy, for Show and Tell?"

"Of course, darling. Aren't you such a talented girl? Let me find a plastic sleeve for it."

* * *

><p>Unfortunately, the child killer Keats did have in mind has decided that he's going to pick today to nearly overdose on heroin and is currently snoring in the middle of his lounge floor, very much incapable of killing so much as a snail. Keats is so annoyed he shoots the bastard there and then, squeezing the life out of him as his blood pours over the filthy bile-green carpet. Hopefully nobody'll bother to check his flat until Keats is long gone- and he doesn't intend on hanging around. No, as soon as Hunt's disposed of, and hopefully Drake along with him, he's off. The department will break apart like splintered ice without Hunt at the helm.<p>

So who, then? He'll have to let one of the blaggers out of the cells without attracting suspicion. He hates getting his own hands dirty, but then again, waving the idiot off as he heads on his way, totally under Keats' control, trotting off to kill a little girl right under the noses of CID… that'll bring a certain satisfaction. A smile crawls over his face as he imagines it, standing above the dead druggie's head smoking a panatela.

Flicking ash over the lifeless face at his feet, Keats drops the cigar, grinding it into the floor with the heel of his shoe. Best get a move on then, if he's to organise all this. Maybe he can have some fun with Gene into the deal… that would make his day. Yes, he's determined to make this a bad day for Gene Hunt.

* * *

><p>"I'm drivin', fer God's sake. You don't know which one's the accelerator, from the way you drive."<p>

"Gene, don't be ridiculous, you're walking wounded. Just give me the bloody keys."

"You don't 'alf love 'arpin' on about that, do yer? It's a bloody cut. I don't use my stomach ter drive, an' last time I looked I was wearin' shoes that actually allowed me ter drive rather than those towers yer insist on wearin', so shut yer lipstick an' get in the car like a good girl."

"You misogynistic, stubborn, bloody irritating-"

"Bolls, shh."

A little taken aback by the sudden change from growl to whisper, Alex halts in the middle of the road, staring at Gene as he eases forwards, unlocking the Quattro from a few feet away.

"Gene, what-"

He shakes his head, reaching out to carefully, oh so slowly, open the driver's door, and then in a blur of Crombie coat yank something off the wheel and dart backwards, as though awaiting a bomb blast. Alex rushes over to him.

"Gene?"

"Couple of cars in Manchester got blown up like that… was just bein' cautious."

He holds the note out to her, his eyebrows tightly pursed; Alex takes it gingerly, her fingers leaving moist imprints on the paper as her eyes flick over the words.

_If you get a call to the west of the station, DO NOT go out under the bridge of the station. If you do, you are putting yourself at considerable risk. Loop round the other side instead and join the west road at the junction._

_ A friend._

"A friend," Alex repeats abstractly, lifting the note into the air, as though the weak London sun will reveal some hidden meaning on the paper. Gene rolls his eyes, plumping down in the driver's seat and taking another healthy swig of whisky. _Lined stomach this time, she can't complain._

"Oh, for goodness' sake… Driving drunk kills, Gene."

_There's just no pleasin' you, is there, Lady Bolls?_

"Good thing I'm such a good driver then, eh, Bolly? Now get yer delectable arse inter this car an' we can finally 'ead off ter the station."

"Have you checked the car, Gene? If someone left this note, they could have left something else."

"I've checked the driver's seat."

"You've sat in the driver's seat."

"Exactly."

"You should do a full sweep of it just in case there is something."

"An' 'as anythin' gone bang? Nope. Which suggests there is no bomb in this car, or anythin' remotely 'armful, apart from possibly a bit o' left-over vindaloo in one o' the footwells. The note is addressed from 'a friend', an' the last time I checked, friends don't as a general rule try ter off yer by puttin' a bomb in yer car, so get in before we make ourselves late."

Alex, an expression on her face that wouldn't look out of place on a Medusa, flounces to the passenger seat, yanking the door open and throwing herself in, promptly defeating her own case by banging her head on the roof as she gets in.

"When yer've finished, Madam Princess, we've got bloody work ter do!"

* * *

><p>"Should yer be back, Guv?"<p>

"Bugger off, Carling. Do somethin' useful fer once instead o' standin' around lookin' like Barbara Cartland's fanny with a face."

Ray, a deeply hurt look on his face, retreats to his desk, stroking his moustache as though to comfort it; Shaz hides a smirk behind her hand, hurriedly wiping it off at the exasperated look on Alex's face.

"You alright, ma'am?"

"He's a nightmare… come on, Shaz, let's hide in the kitchenette, the menfolk can do without our stabilising influence for five minutes."

Grinning once again, Shaz abandons her half-typed letter and follows Alex to the kitchenette, winking at her superior officer as she reveals a Galaxy bar, hidden with the skill of a true detective behind the Garibaldis in the top cupboard. Alex all but collapses into one of the chairs, beaming proudly at Shaz as the WPC proffers the chocolate with a smile.

"Galaxy, ma'am?"

"Shaz, you are an absolute angel. Sod DC, you should be a DI," Alex sighs, taking her half of the chocolate bar and gulping down half of it at once. "Oh… sometimes you just need chocolate, you know the feeling, Shaz?"

"I 'ave it most days when I get 'ome from 'ere," Shaz laughs, sitting down opposite her superior officer. "Is the Guv OK? You bandaged 'im up?"

"The Guv's walking wounded, but I'm sure he'll be fine given time, tea and Garibaldis, Shaz. No whisky, though, so don't take him any even if he asks. I've hidden his."

"That's brave, ma'am."

The two look evenly at each other and giggle, enjoying their little moment of female conspiracy.

* * *

><p>Gene, meanwhile, has found the bottle of Scotch hidden not-so-ingeniously in his filing cabinet; it <em>is<em> logical, he supposes as he tips another measure into his tumbler, fiddling reflectively with the glass as he watches Ray delving into Page Three and one of the DCs spilling his pen-pot all over the floor; the filing cabinet is the only thing in his office he doesn't use.

The note from the Quattro sits on the desk in front of him, crumpled at the edges, scribbled in blue ballpoint; he doesn't recognise the writing, nor can he guess who the 'friend' might be. Sighing, he slips it under a file balanced precariously on the edge of his desk, idly toying with the little toy Quattro beside his computer, driving it first under a ridge of paper from his in-tray and then across the keyboard of the Spectrum, the plastic wheels rattling over the keys.

Take the stranger's advice and risk them not being so friendly? Or take it and possibly avoid being placed at great risk?

With luck, he thinks as he takes a healthy gulp of whisky and rolls it round his mouth, he won't get any calls to the west. With luck.

* * *

><p>Quarter past three. Katie Howard looks longingly at the clock in her classroom, eager to go home and tell her parents all about her day, the gold star she'd got in her spelling test and the new friend she's made, blissfully oblivious to the man waiting silently by the school gates, a gun-shaped bulge in his jacket pocket.<p>

* * *

><p>Twenty past three and the phone in Gene's office shrills, cutting through his whisky-induced fantasy of Alex naked on the beach with a bottle of coconut oil; one long finger curls round the receiver, lifting it to the scruffy blond hair covering his ear, stroking the back of it as he imagines it's Alex's smooth thigh beneath his fingers. Sometimes a man just needs a nice daydream to take his mind off his aches and pains. Literally, in Gene's case.<p>

"Hunt. This better be good."

"DCI Hunt? I'd like to report a theft at my school, we were outside at the time and we heard gunshots. All the children are safe, but we're worried someone might be injured. I'm calling from St George's Cathedral Catholic Primary School."

To the west. St George's is to the west.

"Erm… OK. On our way."

Gunshots. Primary school. Every copper's worst nightmare.

And to the west…

"Bolly! Chris! Ray! Shaz! With me!"

* * *

><p>Normally Gene would take off as soon as everyone was in the Quattro, flooring it before Alex had even had a chance to belt up; today, though, he starts the car and then rests his elbows on the dashboard either side of the wheel, eyes flicking between the bridge to the west and the road to the east, the busy junction, one road leading over to the west.<p>

"Guv?" Shaz asks from the back, already confused as to why she is being brought along; it isn't good for the nerves when Gene is like this, unpredictable and quiet, nobody ever knows quite what's going on. Gene strokes his chin softly, twisting round to check the east entrance to the station, sighing heavily to himself. _Sod it. The east it is._

Turning the Quattro round, Gene squeals away, barrelling round the corner and towards the junction without a second thought.

On the bridge to the west, Keats stares at the red car joining the traffic on the west road, his jaw all but hanging loose in utter shock.

"Who tipped you off, Hunt, you bastard?"

* * *

><p>A surprisingly short time later and they are drawing up to the primary school, the Quattro swerving to avoid several parked cars; everything appears to be going as normal, certainly no teachers biting their nails, or white-faced children checking all their classmates are there. In fact, there is nothing to suggest that there has been any sort of problem at all at St. George's Primary School, not even a dented railing.<p>

"If someone's been tuggin' my todger on this one, I'll be tuggin' theirs bloody off," Gene grumbles, yanking his door open and sliding out, pout firmly in place on his face. Alex surveys the school, eyes narrowed; no phone boxes nearby, nowhere in sight where a prank call could be made… so is this organised? There was the note, as well…

Gene suddenly stands stock-still, honing in, a lion marking its prey.

His gaze is fixed on the short man standing beside the school gates, face all but hidden by the collar of his thick dark coat, a thick L-shaped bulge in his pocket.

Before anyone can say anything, his own gun is out, making a nearby mother scream and clutch her little girl to her body, sheltering behind an old Ford.

The man in the dark coat turns.

Gene fires straight into the man's leg.

"HOLY SHIT!"

If the people around the school were the epitome of calm before, they certainly aren't now; mothers, fathers and children alike run for cover, some hiding behind each other, all eyes flicking between Gene and the man now holding his gun aloft, clutching his leg as blood spills onto the pavement, blazing crimson in the weak London sun.

"Put the gun down, Cunt, or I'll shoot!"

"What, at kids? 'Ow small must your dick be that yer'd sink ter shootin' innocent kiddies ter try an' make yerself feel better? Daddy never love yer, did 'e?"

"I could shoot each and every one of them right now, Cunt!"

As if to emphasise his point, the man waves his gun at the nearest child, eliciting a shriek of terror from his parents; Gene steps forwards, expression stony, his finger clenching on the trigger a second time.

The two guns fire at the same time, one bullet thudding into the tarmac at Gene's feet, the other nearly splitting the dark-coated man's firearm in two as Gene's carefully-aimed shot flies home.

"Gotcha," Gene says triumphantly, holstering his own gun and moving forwards to cuff the gunman by the school gates, hoisting him up to a round of applause from his audience. Alex rolls her eyes.

"As if his head isn't big enough as it is…"

The man now clutched firmly in Gene's grip lifts his head and glares at the excitedly-applauding Katie Howard, narrowing his eyes as her parents pull her into a huge hug, hiding her face in their chests. Alex can't stop the shiver of loathing that snakes down her back, even as she radioes for an ambulance to pick the man up.

Nobody but Gene notices the figure quickly crossing the road along from the school, heading towards a Rover parked on the corner, sliding in before Gene can yell for him to turn round.

His gut instinct tells him that was his 'friend'.

* * *

><p>AN: I am so, so sorry for not updating this one- writer's block decided it would just about eat my muse, along with exams and college work aplenty. Hope you enjoyed, and please, please remember to review, even though I've been so bad! Jazzola :D


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